Friday, November 21, 2014

Yeah, I know that I promised this on Monday and it's now Friday. Welcome, dear friends, to Wedding Preparation Time: four days pass like one? Sounds about right. Tomorrow, we head on up to our venue to finalize our menu...and then, once we're done there, probably eat at Cracker Barrel, which Alanis Morissette assures me is at least somewhat ironic. (An aside: the smart, progressive down-stater in me cannot believe that I've now eaten several meals at a fucking Cracker Barrel. The fat 'Murican in me doesn't care and loves his dumplings. Ah, duality, how you kill me sometimes.)Anyway, here's the essay I wrote for Rhea's shower. Which, naturally, has nothing to do with Cracker Barrel. #ShittiestIntroEver, as the kids might tag it.

* * * * *

Signs that a friendship is about to swerve across several lanes and left-exit onto the Something More Expressway come in different shapes and forms for everybody. For me, ours was delivered inadvertently by a shriveled ex-member of the Rolling Stones. Let me explain:

By the time we met Bill Wyman at a book signing at the Borders in White Plains, Rhea and I had known each other for a little while, having worked together and become increasingly closer friends. For me, the journey started in December of 2001: broken hearted from a relationship that had recently tanked and feeling like I was spinning my wheels, I took a job with Borders for the holiday season. I never meant it to be anything serious; I just wanted to put a few bucks in my bank account and get off the couch I’d been fermenting on for the past couple of months. Once there, I met some interesting folks, made friends, and decided to stick around a bit longer and see where it all took me. Chief among those friends was the girl who, on my second or third night of employment, came in in the vintage Aerosmith t-shirt. I remember standing behind the cash register, talking to her about the shirt and the album/tour it came from (not one of Aerosmith’s most appreciated periods; the kind of thing only real fans would even know much about), and realizing that I might have just met someone who was the exact same flavor of nerd as me. That’s always a great moment in life, by the way.

That conversation led to many more, first at work, then “hey, do you want to come to the bar tonight?”, then “hey, do you want to go to this concert with me?”, and finally, “hey, do you want to cut out of work early to GO AND MEET A ROLLING STONE?”. Yes, yes, and yes, and so we did. Did I mention that the man was shriveled? Remember the California Raisins? Like that, only not made of clay. Nice guy, though; we chatted, he signed, we stood at the front of the store and had someone take the first picture of “us” (whether we knew it or not at the time), and then looked at each other. I don’t remember who said what, but the conversation went like this:
“Are you ready to be done with tonight yet?”“No.”“Want to go to the Pipers Kilt?”“Absolutely.”
And off we went to our favorite bar to discuss, dissect, dream and bond even further. That was the night I was sure I’d know this woman for a long time to come. I don’t know that I was exactly in love yet (or, perhaps more honestly, that I was admitting it yet), but I did know that Rhea was going to be something much more important to my life that just the cool chick I met while working in the record store. There was work to be done on both sides between that moment and when we made that swerve-and-exit I mentioned back at the beginning: ghosts to be faced down and dispatched, debris in the general vicinity of the heart that needed housekeeping, that sort of thing. But looking back on that night all these years later, while writing this for our shower/wedding: God, I was so right that night…and what an amazing journey this has been ever since.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Rhea and I are getting married six weeks from today. I've alluded to the wedding before in these virtual pages, but I think this is the first time I've laid it down in concrete. Six weeks and four hours to be exact, but who's really counting?

So why is this the first you're really hearing of it, dear readers? A fine question: initially, I had intended to blog my little heart out about all the trials and triumphs of wedding planning in real time, all leading up to the big day itself. It was a great, if obvious, idea, but logistically it just didn't pan out for two major reasons: (1) wedding planning is kind of all-encompassing and time-devouring, and (2) nothing raises emotions like a wedding.

Let me expand a bit. Reason 1 is fairly self-explanatory: after a full day of wedding planning, I want nothing more to put on some great album and pass out halfway through. The drain is no joke: a couple of weeks ago, I passed out mid-way through side one of Iron Maiden's Killers blasting on my headphones, waking up only with the kerchunk of the needle hitting the run-out groove. Don't try that at home. Reason 2 is a bit more complicated: in no way do I mean my wedding blog to be a venue for spleen venting or dirt dishing, but when you are dealing with a large group of diverse individuals, it's hard to know exactly who might not get a particular joke. Inadvertently stepping on someone's toes isn't something I even remotely wish to run the risk of: this is supposed to be about joy at the end of the day, and nothing else.

So here's what we're gonna do about all of that: the Big Wedding Blog has not been cancelled, but merely postponed. Sometime after the dust has cleared from the big event - think late January or so - I'm going to start the Big Wedding Blog, and do it How I Met Your Mother-style: start from the big day and work my way back to the beginning. I'm thinking twice-a-week as a schedule for it, and I may spin it off from this blog into its own entity. Watch this space for details.

In the meantime, I think that some as-it-happens writing is in order as well, so that's what this little series will be about. Right now, it's about an hour before Rhea's wedding shower begins. It's going to be one amazing afternoon: Kristina, my sister-in-law-to-be, has done an astounding job putting this together, and I'm beyond psyched to stroll in at the end and see the look on Rhea's face. Right now, I'm at work (nothing weird there - I generally work on Sundays) for a few hours before it's time for me to pack it up here and make my grand entrance there. I'm actually grateful to be here - gives me something to do while I'm pacing in my cage waiting for my moment - and also grateful that it's slow enough that I'm able to be writing this at the same time.

Apart from being amazing, it should also be an interesting event: lots of people from different parts of our lives will be there, and it's always neat to see who makes friends with whom once everybody gets thrown into a social blender. The results of that will probably be fodder for the eventual Big Wedding Blog moreso than this, but if there are any really good stories to share, I promise a preview.

Speaking of exclusive content, I wrote a brief essay for the shower about the moment I knew that Rhea and I would be a big part of each others' lives. I'll post it here either tonight or tomorrow, once the shower guests have had their moment with it. 'Tis good stuff, I think.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Last night, between work and bed, I watched Genesis: Together and Apart, a recent BBC documentary about the veteran prog-rock titans. Why? Because I'm a sucker for rock-docs, that's why. I'm completely indifferent to Genesis as a band, but sometimes the documentaries whose twists and turns I can't predict are the most fun to watch. Sometimes, it's a gamble that doesn't pay off: I remember watching a VH1 original movie on the Monkees about a decade-ish ago that was so badly acted that it managed to make the real Monkees (and there's a phrase you're unlikely to ever hear again, at least on this blog) seem like geniuses by comparison. But the Genesis flick was good: well told enough to keep even an non-fan interested for an entertaining ninety minutes. I'd recommend it.

Music documentaries always rise and fall on how interesting the subjects are, and that goes doubly for one like this that is entirely comprised of interviews with the band members. It goes without saying that Peter Gabriel is articulate and interesting; while I may not have much interest in Genesis as a whole, Gabriel's first five studio solo albums are must-haves in my book, regardless of the fact that I've tried and failed repeatedly to get more interested in his Genesis work. I'll probably give The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway yet another chance sometime soon now that I've just watched this movie; that's an album I've always wanted to like the rest of as much as I do the title track. We shall see.

The rest of the principal members are an interesting lot: guitarist Mike Rutherford comes across as calm and affable, while keyboardist Tony Banks seems like someone you really, really wouldn't want to spend too much real-life time with. I found myself puzzled, about halfway through the film, as to why Banks spent so long in a band whose output he doesn't really seem to like very much - and talk about a guy who's pissed that he never had much of a solo career. Holy bitterness, Prog-Man!

Which leaves us with Phil Collins, whom I found in many ways to be the most interesting interview subject in the film. He comes across as good-natured and sincere, a gentleman who's got a real handle on all the places his career has taken him, and what was good and bad about it all. His perspective is sharp, and his demeanor likable and engaging; by the time the movie ended, I still wanted to hear more of what he had to say. It left me with one inevitable question: why on earth do people hate this guy so much?

I'm not talking about his music, which is as open to subjective like/dislike as anyone's. I'm talking about Collins himself, whom has been the brunt of a stunning amount of internet vitriol in the past few years. Look, I know it's Wikipedia and all, but read this anyway and ask yourself one serious question: what, exactly, did Collins do to piss in the world's collective corn flakes? Because some of this stuff is far beyond simply not liking "Sussudio".

And I don't like "Sussudio". But I do very much like "In the Air Tonight", as most sensible rock fans should. In fact, I like it so much that I apparently grabbed a sub-$1 vinyl copy of Face Value, the album from whence that great song hails at some point. I spun it while getting ready for work this morning - no time like the present, right? - and it's a good album. No, strike that - it's a very good album. I'll probably never love it the way I do the Ramones or Replacements or whatever else is a little more in my wheelhouse as they say, but it is a record full of artistry, passion, and a number of well written songs, none of which are lowest-common-denominator pabulum. I'm glad I own it, and I'll likely enjoy hearing it again sometime.

So what's the problem? His later stuff wasn't as good? Well, whose is, really? No, the problem is a bit deeper and darker than that: we hate Phil Collins with such vehemence because we once loved him so much that he became ubiquitous. And this is what we do as a culture: elevate to eventually devour whole. British musician comes up with a very identifiable pop sound that captures a mass imagination for a spell and makes him a superstar in the process? Well, fuck that guy - we'll take him down a notch or ten! But why, really? Is that song that millions of people bought copies of a few years back now shit to them simply because THE INTERNET SAYS SO. Good lord, people: I hope you treat your friends better than your pop stars.

You know what? I like to be a friend to the bullied whenever I'm able, so I'll stand up right now and tell you that Phil Collins is alright by me. I, Will, do solemnly swear that I like "In the Air Tonight" - and, really all of Face Value. And "Turn it On Again". And wait - he played drums on Peter Gabriel's third album and Robert Plant's The Principle of Moments? Because those are both desert island albums for me. I trust you get the drift.

***

Addendum: In that Wikipedia article, there is a bit about Jimmy Page blaming the crap-ness of Led Zeppelin's Live Aid set on Collins. Really, Jimmy? It wasn't your heroin-addled slop-fest playing that ruined that one, but Phil Collins' drumming? Oooookaaaay then, because the video evidence suggests otherwise, there, Jim.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Wow, is it bitching season again already in Classic Rawk-Land? My, this year has gone quickly. It's a bit of a yearly tradition here on the blog for me to run down the list of nominees and provide commentary. In the past, I've also shared my thoughts on the hall, all of which you can find using this handy link if you're so inclined. But time is money, and I get that, so here's the Cliffs Notes: I enjoy the gossip and, in an evil sort of way, the endless whining aspect of the R&RHOF, but I have no deep emotional investment in the choices of Mr. Wenner et al. My personal R&RHOF lives in the record crates and hard drive I can see from where I'm typing this, and so should yours.

Right, then - on with the show! You wanted the best? Well, you got this instead:

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts: Wait a minute - the fuck? Joan Jett wasn't already in the Hall of Fame? I'm not being cute or simply cussing for effect here; I could have sworn she was. Good lord; Joan Jett is rock 'n' roll, and this is a total no-brainer.

Lou Reed: Lou's already in as a member of the Velvet Underground. On the other hand, he's also a lot more dead than he was the last time Annual Classic Rawk Bitching Season was upon us, so here he is as a solo artist. And why not? He made some great solo records and, as the equally late Joe Strummer once put it while he was still here, death is a star.

Green Day: Eventually? Sure. Before the Replacements, Husker Du or the Descendents? Sorry, wrong timing. I think Billie Joe himself might even agree with that.

Nine Inch Nails: Absolutely, and I say that as someone who admires Trent Reznor more than I actually listen to him. He pioneered a unique sound that has been massively influential and perennially popular.

Kraftwerk: Okay, here's a good lesson for the squadrons of inter-tube whiners: On a personal level, I find Kraftwerk's music almost immeasurably dull. But in the bigger world that isn't curated by my tastes alone, I'm aware that their influence has been vast. In? Absolutely; I don't have to enjoy their music to acknowledge their importance.

The Marvelettes, The Spinners, and War: All made some fine music, but all seem a bit second-tier for something called a hall of fame. There is a difference between "made a few good records" and "had a large influence and/or enduring popularity", and I do not mean that insultingly. Either is more than most accomplish, but it's the latter alone that should propel an artist into a hall of fame.

Bill Withers: It's easy to forget just how omnipresent Withers still is until you take a minute to stop and think about it. He absolutely should be in.

Sting: As a solo artist? Really? Is this year's TV broadcast sponsored by Sominex and/or ZZZQuil? Good god, no.

Stevie Ray Vaughan: **EDITED!** In the original version of this post, I argued against Vaughan's induction. My darling fiancee Rhea, who is much more into the whole blues-rock scene than I will likely ever be, really convinced me that I had severely underestimated the reverence that still exists for him, and I'm not too proud to admit when I'm really wrong about something. He's not my cup of tea - honestly, I need my blues-rock music to be an 80/20 percent split in favor of the rock half of the equation - but he's very much worthy of induction. (And lest ye gentle readers think I'm just that likely to roll over when a beautiful woman tells me I'm wrong, consider this: she also attempted - admittedly, with far less verve but still - to convince me that I was wrong about Sting as well. Fuck that noise.)

The Smiths: Really, I shouldn't even comment on this one, given that five seconds of Morrissey is ten seconds too much for me; for whatever reason, I've an aversion to his vocals and persona that's almost blinding. Still, I can't be a hypocrite: they have certainly had the large influence and/or enduring popularity I mentioned above. So yes...but also yuck.

Chic, N.W.A., and The Paul Butterfield Blues Band are all returning from last year, and you can read my detailed thoughts from then, which haven't changed, right here. In short: Chic should already be in, N.W.A. have a great shot and are deserving, and Butterfield isn't hall of fame material.

And that about does it until next year, dear fans of complaint. See you then!

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

So, yeah, about this free U2 album that I’m supposed to hate
the mere existence of…

Seriously, internet: this
is your idea of an important problem?
Juxtaposition is a funny thing sometimes: in my Facebook feed for the
last few days, the pros and cons of free U2 often sit side by side with a
series of photos and interviews of Tibetans conducted by the Humans of New York
page. If you’ve ever heard the phrase “first-world
problems” and felt a little unsure as to its meaning, looking at these two
things side by side will have you up to speed in less time than it takes to,
say, download a U2 album from iTunes. Unfortunately there’s not much I can do to help the Tibetan people, but music
and tech? Right up my alley. Let’s do this.

For the record, I’m fairly U2-neutral. As a kid, I liked their stuff through The Joshua Tree well enough that I’ve
never divested myself of the CDs, although I don’t really remember the last
time I actually listened to any of ‘em, either.
After that, it was diminishing returns – liked some of Rattle and Hum, some of Achtung Baby, and not much of anything
else with one major exception. All That You Can’t Leave Behind
connected with me very viscerally during a particularly dark, tough time in my
life, and while I’m not always in the mood to hear it now I’m also grateful
that it was – and is – around. I’m no fanboy, but they’re alright, y’know?

Flash to now: I, along with half a billion other people, am
now the proud owner of Songs of Innocence,
whether I like it or not. Conceptually,
I like it just fine: to me, this is no different than when I worked in a store
that sold music and was never shy about taking home free promo discs. 9 out of 10 of ‘em were garbage, sure, but
that tenth always made it all worthwhile.
Specifically, I think the U2 album is okay. After one listen it didn’t bowl me over with
its outrageous brilliance, but it was enjoyable enough that I’ll probably give
it another spin or two. One spot of
constructive criticism right off the bat, though: if you’re gonna call a song “The
Miracle (of Joey Ramone)” – and you should, what a great title – it needs to
kick a little harder than this one does.

But wait a minute: why am I pretty much okay with all of
this? THE INTERWEBS SAYS I SHOULD BE ALL
ANGRY BECAUSE PRIVACY. And where, you
ask, does the internet say this? On
Facebook, that’s where. Really,
folks? REALLY? You’re going to go on Facebook, which makes
absolutely no bones about the fact that you surrender all of your rights to
privacy and content ownership the second you click that “sign up” button, and complain that Apple
and/or Bono has mercilessly invaded the sanctity of your digital home by giving
you a free album? Come on, people – y’all
need to try a bit harder than that.

Speaking of trying a bit harder, I’d like to point out here
that Songs of Innocence did not
automatically download onto any of my Apple products. Why?
Because I have automatic syncing and automatic downloading disabled on
them, as you should as well if you’re actually concerned with security and
privacy. It’s not a hard thing to do at
all: a quick google for instructions and about two minutes of your time and you’ll
be good to go. But hey, I get it – this is
a time for mindless complaining, not practical solutions. Gotcha.

You know who’s really smart in all of this? U2, or at least their management, because
they actually managed to get paid for an album in this era when that’s a
near-impossibility. Sure, Songs of Innocence was free for you the
end-user, but it wasn’t free for Apple.
Essentially, the tech giant bought you a copy of the album, which
means that U2 got paid a hell of a lot more than they would have had they
flogged their album in a more traditional manner; let’s not forget that their last album, the
lifeless No Line on the Horizon, was
quite the flop by normal U2 sales standards.
Good on them for realizing that the old way of selling albums is
dead. In fact, I hope this sparks a bit
of a trend: I’d love to see some artists who probably need the money a lot more
than U2 have their work purchased and distributed in this sort of manner. For all that “music wants to be free” as the
pirates will tell you – and I’m certainly not innocent of acquiring music that
way, and neither are you most likely – the musicians still need to be
compensated, so that they can continue to create with a roof over their heads and
paid-for gear in their hands.

Then there’s the funny side of this: did you know that lots of young people have no idea who U2 even are?
I love this; given that hubris is such an active ingredient in
everything U2 and Bono do, there is an extremely amusing lesson to be learned
for them at the link I’ve embedded above.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

I feel the same way every other sane person who's heard the awful details of Mr. Williams' passing does: sad. True, unique genius is an astonishingly rare thing, and he was certainly both blessed and burdened with in it equal proportion. I'd love to have had a fraction of his life and talent, but I'd never in a million years want to stare down the bill that came due for it all.

It's neither a secret nor a new idea that comedy, like any other public display of creativity, is often rooted in dark places. There's probably a trace amount of what killed Robin Williams in my compulsion to write, as there is in whatever has driven the musicians I've discussed on this blog to put their ideas to vinyl, and so on for all the other artsy types making their way around this bright green globe That's a scary thought for every last one of us. Given that reality, it is truly remarkable that the overwhelming majority of us have fond a way to walk in the light, no matter how many shadows vie to obscure it.

There's nothing you can do for Robin Williams now - he fought hard against a formidable foe and lost. Death demands contemplation and bereavement, but it also requires you to up the ante of your commitment to the living. I'd imagine that the audience for my blog is largely comprised of the creative types for whom Mr. Williams' death - and the reasons for it - hit home hard. So I need to ask you all an important personal question: are you alright? If you're not, then speak up right now, as loud as you can. If you are, then go ask your friends the same question...and listen closely to whatever response they offer. No one's asking you to have all the answers - there are professionals for that - but sometimes attentive listening is enough, or at least a good first step.

* * *

ETA: Rush Limbaugh - and those who will undoubtedly follow in his tasteless, pathetic footsteps in an attempt to politicize this - can fuck off right now. This is a human issue, you myopic imbecile, one completely separate from the sad, divisive spectator sport you and yours have turned American politics into.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

You know what the biggest problem with Record Store Day is? It's not the eBay flippers, it's not the snobby audiophiles, it's not the limited-edition/wild goose chase print runs of some of the titles, and it's not even (generally) the BO of the guy in line ahead of you. The problem is finding time to listen to your big bag o' wax once Record Store Day is replaced by Back To Work Monday (and Tuesday and so on)...especially if you've already posted something about RSD on your blog that you hyped on Facebook as being the "first in a series to continue throughout the week." Make that the next two weeks, then: I still intend to review the stuff I bought once I find the time to give it all a fair listen.

In the meantime, let's talk a bit about the event itself. In my last post, I mentioned a nasty store experience that Rhea and I had - and even called out the store itself for those savvy enough to click my hyperlinks. Fortunately for Rhea and I, that store wasn't our primary stop. We've tried a bunch of different places over the years, generally ranging from awful (NYC's recently late, otherwise-lamented J&R Music World) to mediocre (several, really). For the last two Record Store Days, however, we've found a great place to begin the day's adventure: a great store with a great staff that gets a good fill-rate on their orders and runs the entire thing in a completely fair manner. These days, I wouldn't dream of going anywhere else, and that's where the Blogger's Dilemma comes in: do I let everyone in on the secret, or keep this awesome bit of knowledge to myself?

Actually, the decision's not all that hard: what the flippers, snobs and stinkers I mentioned above all have in common is selfishness, and since that ain't the crowd I'm looking to hang with it's time to come clean. If you are in the NY/CT/NJ tri-state area, the place to go for your Record Store Day needs is Scotti's Record Shop in Summit, NJ. Everything about the experience is as good - and fair - as it can possibly be. The staff are polite and friendly to a person, the free coffee, cookies and live music are wonderful, and the way they run their show - folks let in a manageable few at a time and then given time to adequately browse, with a one-copy-per-customer limit upheld - couldn't possibly be improved upon. Scotti's atmosphere and policies, in turn, attract a fun, well-mannered crowd: no pushers-and-shovers, just fans there for the same reason you are. It's everything that RSD is supposed to be about; you know, the kind of experience that makes you want to go to the record store more often. This line video, shot just before opening on Saturday morning, gives you a little taste of what I'm talking about. (Oh, and Rhea and I are in this: she's the one in the Muppet shirt; I'm the guy in the Replacements hoodie talking about Joe Strummer and Cheap Trick.)

The pros and cons of Record Store Day have been beaten like a dead horse on the intertubes, and I'm happy to let those discussions exist elsewhere, after this quick Cliff's Notes version of my thoughts on it: it does far more good than harm. Yes, there are things that could be improved by the event's national organizers - and there are things that have been improved as the years have worn on - but it does bring a sense of excitement to a hobby and scene that was more or less left for dead a few years back. That as many people as you see in that video would line up early in the morning in 2014 to go to a record store is a wonderful, amazing thing - and if it helps to keep great local businesses like Scotti's a going concern once the lines die down, then may both RSD and the stores it benefits continue to thrive for years to come.

* * * * * *

ETA: I've never been to the store it promotes - Darkside Records and Gallery in Poughkeepsie, NY - but a former employee of Rhea's (back when she ran a Sam Goody's; see, all roads really do lead back to the record store) passed this along to her - and her, in turn, to me. Looks like these folks "get it", too; looking forward to checking this place out sometime soon.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Look at the adorable thing pictured above. It's a Crosley portable turntable, adorned with Peanuts comic strips. It was made available exclusively yesterday as a part of Record Store Day, that yearly gathering of the geeks (in a good way) for my chosen hobby. Now look at it again, and this time ask yourself a question as you gaze: "how could something this absolutely lovable be a lightning rod for obnoxious snobbery?"

My darling fiancee Rhea saw a picture of one online on Friday, and immediately decided she had to have one. Being the smart, well-informed cookie that she is, she immediately followed her joyful, gasping-and-shrieking discovery of the item with "Maybe I should research them first." I told her not to bother, knowing exactly what she would find.

Let me pause for a second to make a bold, important statement: audiophiles are, more often than not, horrible human beings. I'm not talking vinyl fans in general, but that certain strain of snob who seems to derive joy only from having something better than you. They don't like music at all. In fact, they don't really even like equipment at all. They like snobbery, and they make me ashamed of my hobby every time I encounter their soulless bullshit. They're like the Simpsons' Comic Book Guy turned up to eleven, with even less of a sense of humor. And good lord, do they hate the very concept of a Crosley portable turntable.

I did a good job of shielding my darling from the internet trolls, but real life gets more troublesome. We had to go to several stores to finally procure this awesome little bundle of cuteness, which should tell you a thing or two about the good taste of consumers in the real world. At the second store we tried, my darling got IRL trolled, as the kids would say:

Rhea: "Did you get any of the Crosley Peanuts turntables in?"

Dickhead: "No, We don't order that crap. We respect vinyl too much for that here."

Fuck off with that shit, Slappy. First off, I've browsed your used section more than once; the only thing you respect about vinyl is the ability to price-gouge for records in somewhat questionable condition. Secondly, really? REALLY? High Fidelity wasn't a documentary, you know. It was a parody. Let that sink in for a minute or two, chief.

Happily, we found one a few stops later, at a store that was more than happy to make a $120 sale and keep its opinion - if it even had one - to itself. Obviously, from what you've read so far, I'm familiar with the debate over Crosley's products, but I've never tried one for myself until last night. And honestly, I'm wondering exactly what in the hell the problem is here. To wit:

It's a small, mostly plastic, suitcase-shaped portable turntable. Anybody mistaking this thing for a piece of HIGH-END, HIGH-FIDELITY AUDIOPHILE EQUIPMENT frankly needs their head examined. It does exactly what it's supposed to: plays records at a consistent speed and emits the results through the small speakers at the front, which sound fine for what they are. It's fun, it's cute as hell, and it just might get somebody who has no time - or desire - in their hectic life to deal with HIGH END, HIGH-FIDELITY AUDIOPHILE EQUIPMENT to spin a few records. How is that anything other than wonderful?

While we're asking questions, my big one is this: what, precisely, does a portable Crosley turntable claim to do that it doesn't? And what, precisely, is so wrong with enjoying vinyl on such a basic, plug-and-play level?

I'll answer the second of those questions based on my own experience from last night: nothing at all. We listened to three records on our new Crosley: The Velvet Underground and Nico, Aerosmith's Toys in the Attic, and Laura Nyro's Eli and the Thirteenth Confession. The first two of those I know quite well, and they sounded just as fine as ever. The Laura Nyro I'd heard plenty about, but had never actually sat down and listened to before...and I immediately wanted to know more about it.

I very likely found a new-to-me record to love last night...by hearing it for the first time from a beat up, well-loved old LP played on a Crosley portable turntable. Respect the vinyl, indeed.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

It's a funny thing: I held this post for today, in the fear that anyone who's still got an eye on this dusty little corner of the intertubes would see a new post on April 1st and fear the Fools Day thing was going on. Okay, maybe not "funny". Maybe "neglectful" or "I need to find the time to..." or "Holy shit, it's APRIL and I've not posted on my blog yet this year", but certainly not "lazy".

Since last we spoke, I've gone back to school for a CCNA course that taught me both (a) that I can in fact be a student again regardless of how poorly college ended for my younger, undisciplined ass back in the day, and (b) I still have a bit to learn about corporate-level computer networking. Which I am currently learning instead of writing, but that's surely a temporary condition: once the career-change thing is nailed, writing - and the time for it - become easier commodities to obtain. (That whole bit about starving artists? Utter bullshit - I defy you to find anyone who's written/created anything good while wondering how the bills will get paid, resumes aside.)

Rhea and I are also planning to really, Really, REALLY get married this year. The process of sorting this out is utterly, completely ridiculous; anyone who tells you that the path to Eternal Love doesn't lead straight past a bottomless money pit has clearly never attended a wedding expo in Westchester County. Unlike the Cisco Certification stuff (which is completely uninteresting to anyone not in, or aspiring to be in the field), the wedding planning bit is ripe with blogging possibilities based on the remarkable absurdity of it all. Here Comes the Groom, coming your way real soon-like, right here on this very channel!

While the dust has been collecting, I've received several comments and/or emails relating to various old entries. I'll be replying to 'em over the next week or so if I haven't already - thank you all for reaching out, and please accept my sincere apologies for the fact that my busy-ness sometimes leads to tardiness.

And as for the silent visitors documented in my page-counts, thank you for still checking in as well.